The Right Swipe

by Alisha Rai

“You should be. I’m happy with you.”

  “I was telling my therapist . . . if I can frequent at least ten places, maybe then I’ll try dating again.”

  Rhiannon’s first instinct was to tackle Katrina right then, wrap her up in cotton, and keep her safe. “Um.”

  Her best friend’s smile was rueful. “I know. I’m a romantic and you’re a cynic, and you’re scared for me to even try.” Her smile faded. “I’m lonely.”

  “I’ll come up more,” Rhiannon said immediately. “Or I’ll live here full-time and commute every day. Or—”

  “No.” Katrina held up her hand. “I love you, but it’s not that kind of loneliness. I miss being held. I miss sleeping with someone at night. God, I miss spooning.”

  Rhiannon rolled off the deck chair and nudged Katrina over. Her friend laughed as she complied and Rhiannon squeezed next to her. “I’m too big for us both to fit on here,” she protested.

  “You’re not big. We fit fine.” Rhiannon pulled her closer. Zeus clambered over them to rest over their chests.

  “As much as I appreciate and value all cuddling, this isn’t exactly what I miss either,” Katrina said with a chuckle. But she hugged Rhiannon back, and they sat together for a few minutes in silence.

  Rhiannon closed her eyes, enjoying this. Nobody spoke enough about how much bodies could be starved for platonic affection. She knew she gave off strong Do Not Touch vibes, but she needed occasional hugs too.

  Rhiannon’s nose wrinkled as Zeus dug her tiny claws into her skin. “If you want to start dating again, that’s fine. However, you’re rich and you’ve been out of the game for a while, so please understand I’m going to vet any dude you happen to meet.” She shuddered. “And we’re only handing out benefits like doubt for rare special cases, like you said. Not everyone gets that.”

  Katrina lifted a shoulder. “It’ll be a while. I still have to be able to regularly go to three more places without drugging myself.”

  Ten was an arbitrary number, but Rhiannon knew from experience that Katrina didn’t like anyone questioning her goals. “Whenever.”

  The ringing coming from the small black cylinder on the table beside them startled Rhiannon. “Sienna, patch the call through,” she said out loud.

  There was a brief pause, and then Lakshmi’s voice filled the air. “Hey, boss.”

  “Hey. Katrina’s here.”

  “Hi, Lakshmi.”

  Lakshmi’s voice warmed. “Katrina. Okay, first of all, Rhiannon, I got your travel for your brother’s engagement party booked.”

  Sonya would be delighted that this chore was done. “Can you—”

  “Already emailed your mom.”

  “Thank God.”

  “Second, I have some great news. Helena’s people called, they want you and Samson to do a little segment on her new show. They said, and I quote, ‘Helena is charmed by your little videos.’”

  A little stab of irritation hit her that she’d have to share screen time with someone else. Cooperating with a competitor was all well and good, but she didn’t want her’s and Samson’s names linked forever.

  Unless you buy Matchmaker.

  She liked the idea of working indefinitely with Samson a little too much. “Any way for it to be just me?” Rhiannon absentmindedly stroked Zeus’s fur and rested her head on Katrina’s shoulder.

  “They want both of you.”

  Fine. “Book it.”

  “I’ll try to do it around the time of the engagement party so you won’t have to go to the East Coast twice.”

  “Perfect.” She hated jet lag and lost time.

  Lakshmi blew out a breath. “Now, to the bad news.”

  She sat up at those dire words, and so did Katrina. The kitten bounced into Katrina’s lap. “What’s the bad news?”

  “Swype’s Chief Executive Asshole has reportedly been cozying up to William Daniels.”

  Her heart jumped and she tried to wrestle it back down. “Cozying up how?”

  “They were seen playing golf. Having dinner together.”

  Rhiannon didn’t doubt Lakshmi’s sources, they’d never been wrong before. There were a million perfectly good reasons why Swype’s CEO and Matchmaker’s CEO might be buddying it up together.

  And one scary reason why they might, as well.

  When Rhiannon didn’t speak, Katrina jumped in. “Thanks for the information, Lakshmi.” She made their goodbyes, which Rhiannon barely heard. Her mind was going a mile a minute, thinking of everything she needed to do to circumvent this possible sabotage.

  She jumped when Katrina placed her hand on her shoulder. “Rhiannon, they could be having dinner, no ulterior motive. They’re in the same social circle.”

  She and William were in the same circle, but he’d never play golf with her. Or take her out to dinner.

  Because of Peter, probably. She clenched her fists tight. “That fucker.”

  “Hard agree, he is a fucker. But you need to take a deep breath.”

  Instead, Rhiannon launched off the chair to pace. “He’s trying to buy Matchmaker from under me.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I do. He saw the videos. He’s annoyed about how fucking wholesome and cute it is and he’s pissed he’s not a part of it.” She got to the end of the patio and whirled around. “Do you know what he’s like when he feels left out of something? Did I tell you about the time I went to a friend’s birthday party and didn’t think to invite him? He didn’t talk to me for a week. He broke the vase my brother made for me, the one I kept in my office.” Peter had said it was an accident, and at the time, she’d believed him. She gripped her elbows. “He knows I want Matchmaker. He’s gonna try to get it.”

  She jerked to a stop when Katrina stepped in front of her and put her hands on her shoulders. “Stop. Take a deep breath.”

  “This isn’t a fucking panic attack,” Rhiannon snapped, and then flinched at her own thoughtlessness. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I—”

  “Stop,” Katrina repeated again, slower this time. She pressed her hand on Rhiannon’s collarbone. “Take a deep breath.”

  Rhiannon complied, more out of regret than an actual belief it would help. Sure enough, her heart continued to pound. Sweat had popped out at her hairline. “Katrina, he can’t win. He can’t—”

  “Name three things you see.”

  She almost whimpered. This was stupid, and a waste of time.

  But she’d already minimized Katrina’s issues once, and she owed it to her to listen. “Your eyes.”

  “What color are they?”

  “Brown. Medium brown.”

  “Name two more things you see.”

  “The orange marigolds you planted in the window boxes.”

  “One more.”

  She blinked, the better to clear her vision, which had narrowed and blurred. “The city. A sliver of the ocean.”

  “Now name two things you can hear.”

  “The birds calling to each other. The wind chimes on the tree over there.”

  “Name one thing you can smell.”

  She inhaled and exhaled deeply. “The roses.”

  “Good. Good girl. Can you think a little clearer now?”

  Rhiannon blinked back the tears in her eyes. She could think clearer, but that meant the panic and anger had receded and she could taste loss and defeat. She didn’t know if that was better or worse. “He can’t win.”

  “Even if Peter does buy Matchmaker, Rhi, that doesn’t mean he’s won. You’re a better businessperson than him. You’ll trump him, one way or another.”

  Rhiannon worked her jaw. No, Katrina didn’t understand. She couldn’t let Peter win at anything, or even think he’d won at anything.

  The best revenge is success.

  If she couldn’t get success? Then what? What did she have?

  “I have to . . . I have to do something.” She walked to the table and picked up her phone, sending a quick text.

  “What are you doing?”


  “I can’t cozy up to William.” Especially now that it was confirmed that Peter and he were chums. There was no way William hadn’t been given an earful about how evil she was. “But he’s not the majority shareholder of the company anyway. I have to get ahold of Annabelle.” She grabbed her laptop. “I’m going to go down to the office.”

  “To the office, or to see Samson?” Katrina asked astutely.

  Hopefully the latter, but Samson needed to text her back to confirm that. In the meantime, she’d start driving down to L.A. She grunted.

  “Rhi, be—”

  “Careful. I know. I will be, I promise. I . . . I can’t let Peter have this. If anyone buys Matchmaker, it has to be me.”

  Katrina was quiet for a second and then nodded. “Okay. Go. Let me know what you need from me.”

  This. This acceptance calmed her down more than breathing exercises ever could. “I will.” She reached out and squeezed Katrina’s shoulder. “I’ll keep you updated.”

  If there was anything to update. Worry and fear had her walking at a fast clip, and she kept glancing at her silent phone. She’d been so preoccupied with this little project with Samson and their canoodling, she couldn’t believe she’d taken her eye off the prize, the prize she’d already gone to great lengths to attempt to secure. She couldn’t lose this.

  Not to him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  SAMSON’S PHONE vibrated in his pocket, and he almost reached for it, a Pavlovian response he had to consciously beat back. He’d never been tied to his cell as much as he had for the past couple weeks. The hit of dopamine to his brain every time it was Rhi on the other end of the line had become addictive.

  This time, though, his hands were full, so he did his best to ignore it, even when it buzzed a second time. He’d check it after lunch.

  Samson kept a gentle hold of Miley’s fists while she stood and balanced on his thighs, her tiny feet encased in trendy white sneakers that matched her dad’s. She beamed at him, her fat cheeks creasing, and took a wobbly step.

  “. . . anyway, that’s why sometimes it’s that greenish-brown color.” Dean looked at Samson expectantly.

  Oh, thank God. His friend was done. “I never knew there was so much variation in baby poops,” Samson managed to say. Miley babbled, as if to agree, and plopped down like her legs had gone suddenly boneless. Samson grasped her around her waist and secured her. A few visits with his goddaughter, and he was feeling ten times more at ease with her size. Infants were like a ball of cheeks and rolls held together with drool, but they were surprisingly sturdy.

  Dean paused with his water glass halfway to his mouth. “Oh no. I did it again, didn’t I? I overdadded.”

  Yes. “Not at all.”

  “You’re being too nice to me. Harris would have stopped me the second I started talking about diapers.”

  “No, I don’t—” Samson rethought that. “Yeah, he would have. To be fair, I probably should have.”

  They’d met up at a popular Irish pub that was owned by a well-known retired basketball player. It had been a trek to get here, but Samson was glad they’d come. It was busy, and they were relatively anonymous.

  More people than usual had started recognizing him since the Matchmaker/Crush collaboration had hit the digital airwaves. He’d stayed off the internet and out of the comments. He didn’t want to really know what people were reminiscing about him or what the campaign had stirred up.

  The Lima Curse.

  He’d known, going into this gig, people would talk about his retirement. So long as he wasn’t slapped in the face with it, he was fine. If he could go the rest of his life without hearing about the Curse, he’d be better.

  “Do you want me to take Miley back?” Dean wiped his hands on his napkin.

  Samson wrapped his arms around the child protectively. So long as she was happy, holding a baby was rather soothing. Like having a therapy animal. “No. Finish your burger.”

  The new dad took another bite, but Samson noticed that he kept an anxious eye on his daughter. “Have you asked Harris why he ribs you so much about Miley?”

  “He says I’m going overboard.” And then, surprising Samson, Dean continued, “I think he’s right.”

  “Do you?”

  Dean took another bite of his grilled portabella burger. His friend wasn’t eating at a breakneck pace today, Samson was happy to notice. “I’m working with Josie to dial it back. Miley’s my world, but I don’t want our marriage to get lost in being parents. Josie’s mom’s gonna come stay in our guesthouse for a while. Give me a break.” Dean’s face brightened. “So when my best friend’s in town, I can actually see him without toting a diaper bag along.”

  Samson smiled, and nodded, relieved. “All that sounds good. Bonus: you’ll get Harris off your back for a while.”

  “Godsend. Can you imagine growing up with that ass—” Dean stopped, gestured, and waited until Samson cupped his palms over the oblivious baby’s ears. “Asshole,” he whispered.

  Samson smoothed Miley’s fuzzy hair. “I don’t have to imagine it. I basically grew up with both of you.”

  “So you did.” A half-reminiscing, half-regretful smile played over Dean’s face. “I honestly don’t know how you did it, man, retiring so early. After I retired, I felt . . . I don’t know if I can describe it.”

  Samson could describe it. “Aimless and trapped?”

  Dean snapped his fingers. “Yes! Exactly that. I didn’t know you could feel both those things at once.”

  Joe had been the one to guide Samson out of his immediate post-retirement funk. Son, I know what it’s like to go from being a part of a pack to being alone. His uncle had coaxed him out of the house, gone on runs with him, had helped ease him from that regimented life to solitary retirement. “Neither did I, until it happened.”

  Dean nodded, thoughtful. “Yeah. At least I was somewhat prepared. You got shoved into retirement.”

  Samson hated the tinge of guilt in Dean’s voice. “I’m fine with my decisions. And yeah, it was tough for a time, but I had you and Harris and most importantly, I had Uncle Joe. Not long after, he got sick.” Samson shrugged. “I didn’t have much time to worry about anything else then.”

  Dean’s gaze was sympathetic. “Big Joe was kind of like your Miley, huh?”

  Samson almost jerked back, but then he remembered the baby in his arms. “What do you mean?”

  “He gave you a purpose. Distracted you from your own feelings.” Dean’s expression turned contemplative.

  “My uncle wasn’t a distraction.” His words were sharper than he intended, but he’d be damned if anyone considered his uncle anything but a whole human in his own right, sickness or no.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I meant, you had someone other than yourself and your feelings to think about. It’s not a bad thing. People like you and I, we function better when we can focus on a team objective over a solo one.” Dean leaned over and pulled out a round blue plastic snack container from his daughter’s diaper bag. At the sight of it, Miley bounced in Samson’s lap. “Do you want some cereal, angel?” Dean crooned, and opened the container, setting it next to Samson’s empty plate. “Check out that pincer grip, will you? She’s so advanced. Gonna be a surgeon, this one.”

  Samson pretended to admire whatever a pincer grip was, but his brain was occupied. When Uncle Joe had gotten sick, he’d sat Samson down on the deck of his home. Your aunt badgered me into going to the doctor, and it’s not good.

  Almost a decade later, he could vividly recall the bolt of fear that had run through him at the news, the trauma of his father’s decline far too fresh. It had been Joe who had consoled Samson. Joe who had suggested Samson come live with him and take care of him. At the time, Samson hadn’t questioned it, they were each other’s closest living relatives, it made sense.

  But now, he wondered if it was because Uncle Joe, even in the midst of his own fear and uncertainty, had known what Samson needed even if he didn’t.

>   A lump of quiet grief rose up in his throat. “You’re right.” He moved his fork out of the baby’s range. “I didn’t feel so aimless so long as it was me and Uncle Joe against the illness. When he passed away, I guess it was like I was lost all over again.”

  “I’m glad you got the Matchmaker gig.”

  “Me too.” He could help Annabelle. Be a part of another team.

  Dean’s voice was gentle and compassionate. “What are you going to do when it’s over?”

  When he stopped seeing Rhi. When he had no one to help and nothing to show up for. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

  Dean immediately backed off. “I gotcha. Sorry, man.”

  “Don’t be sorry.”

  Their waitress popped up, and Samson was so relieved at the interruption, his smile might have been larger than it would have otherwise been.

  “Gentlemen, how’s everything going?”

  “Everything’s great, thanks,” Dean said, but the waitress didn’t look at him.

  She beamed at Samson. “You’re that guy from those Crush ads, aren’t you?”

  “The Matchmaker ads,” he corrected her.

  She waved her hand. “Yeah. Your videos are so cute.”

  Samson picked a piece of cereal off Miley’s shirt and placed it on his empty plate. “Thanks.”

  The waitress’s blue eyes slid over him and she placed her hand on the table. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

  He glanced at Dean, who was waggling his eyebrows like mad while he slowly ate a french fry. “Will do.”

  When she left, Dean stretched over and snatched the napkin she’d left behind before Samson could hide it. “I remember those days,” he said, with nostalgia. “The days women flung their numbers at me, before a baby ruined my figure.”

  With Miley in his lap, Samson couldn’t retrieve the napkin from Dean. “Your figure’s fine and if any woman had even looked at you after Josie locked you down, they would have lost at least an eye.”

  “No joke.” Dean grinned, clearly delighted with his wife. He waved the napkin. “Is this happening often?”

  “More often than I thought it would.”

  “You can’t go around being a halfway decent guy and holding a criminally cute baby and not expect women to throw their numbers slash panties at you.” Dean lowered his voice. “My sister tells me stories of the guys out there, man. The bar is, like, set at a negative level for decency.”